


choices, choices

by barbariccia



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 4.2 spoilers, Latin, M/M, Omega raid spoilers, blowjob, hover text
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26778514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbariccia/pseuds/barbariccia
Summary: "You could at leastpretendyou aren’t the most punchable face in the Reach.”Taking one's hardships lying down is for lesser men, maybe.
Relationships: Cid nan Garlond/Nero tol Scaeva
Comments: 17
Kudos: 63





	choices, choices

**Author's Note:**

> Minor spoilers for the end of the 4.2 quest _Test World of Ruin_.

The pain is surprisingly easy to ignore. Nero tol Scaeva - just Scaeva, now, he reckons, but past accolades are _so_ difficult to give up - simply needs to lay in bed with his eyes closed. He’s too tired for much else, truth be told, not even to incommode the healers that come by to check on him. He supposes he’s lucky they do at all. Of the two Garleans in an Ala Mhigan base, he is by and _far_ the most nettlesome; it wouldn’t be difficult for them not to bother. The potions they brew are strong enough that the pains are replaced merely by aches, and he can rest in some sort of peace: if he pretends hard enough, he’s back in Garlemald, and aches only because of the cold.

Footsteps, slow and sure, enter the room and approach his bed. He does not open his eyes for his visitor, not even when they pull a stool over and sit down in it with an _oof_ that can only be from a man long, long overworked. He will not open his eyes for Cid nan Garlond. He _won’t_.

“I can tell when you’re feigning sleep, you know,” Garlond says, almost callous in his manner. “Is my company that bad? I’d have thought you’d have been gagging for some intellectual conversation after being removed from the Omega project.”

Ugh.

“ _,_ ” Nero groans, and hears the shift of clothes as Cid leans over.

“Are you an _idiot?_ ” he hisses, and Nero scrunches his face up on reflex. “Speaking Garlean _here_ of all places… I thought you cleverer than that, Scaeva. It’s a damn thin line you’re walking already, and you don’t do yourself any favours…”

“Oh, beg off,” Nero grumbles, and finally allows himself to open his eyes. Despite the time he’s spent both asleep for true _and_ merely drifting on the gentle current of restfulness, he’s still tired. Something of it must show on his face, for Cid’s expression softens from fury to a much more agreeable irritation. “There’s no one else here, unless they’ve snuck in a rebel or three while I was dozing.”

A quick glance past Cid’s shoulder confirms that no one has. He’s spent long enough supine, he decides, and tries to sit up - but Cid’s broad hand is gentle on his shoulder and keeps him down. Nero hasn’t the strength to fight back. “Oh, _what?_ Have you come to mock me? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m hardly in a state to engage you in wit, wile _or_ weaponry today. Be a darling and fuck off, would you?”

Cid sighs; his breath blows a limp lock of hair off of Nero’s forehead. It smells like coffee. “And to think I came here because I was _worried_ ,” he mutters, and stands.

It hurts, but Nero lifts an arm to reach out after him anyway, otherwise helpless. Cid looks back, at least, and whatever he sees has him sigh once more, as though he is dealing with a particularly bad-mannered pet rather than an old friend.

“... __ ,” Nero mutters without looking at him. “ _._ ”

“Talk Eorzean, at least,” says Cid, but he does retake the stool. Cheeks hot, Nero winces as he shifts in bed to better look at him. “I’ve stuck my neck out often enough for you with little reward. I’ll not be saving your stupid ass because you refuse to at least _pretend_ like you aren’t the most punchable face in the Reach.”

“Why, Cid,” Nero grins - and then must put his thought on hold as he shifts once more, unwilling to keep his weight on the damage Omega wrought upon him but a week prior. When he finds the strength to speak again, his heart is hammering as though he’s sprinted the perimeter of the Reach. “Such- such an unfair assessment. Most _punchable?_ You have _met_ the wee recruits that traipse in and out? More bravado than brains, by my reckoning.”

“Funny. I could have sworn you were talking about yourself just now. You _do_ remember what you pulled in the void, yes?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you cared,” Nero laughs.

Cid says nothing.

Nothing at all.

Something strange drops into Nero’s stomach, more uncomfortable than the bruises by far. “... Say something,” he says quickly, his mouth dry. “Anything.”

Cid’s gaze is heavy upon him, the pressure terrible to withstand. Nero decides immediately that he does not care for the way he is being looked at, as though he is something to be pitied, small and fragile and in need of a very specific brand of care. “ _Cid nan Garlond —_”

Bed-bound, he cannot shy away from the hand that takes his cheek and holds his face steady. Cid’s fingers are rough with callous, too familiar by far. “Nero,” he says, so quiet and low that his name in that mouth is positively dangerous in its intimacy, “Call me that again and I’ll throttle you myself.”

Nero swallows. “You will, will you?” he asks, trying for smug and hitting sheepish. It sounds positively pathetic coming from him, and he knows it — worse, he knows that _Cid_ knows.

Cid smiles.

“I will,” he confirms, and pats Nero’s cheek gently. When he draws his hand back, it feels a considerable loss, a pang of something Nero doesn’t want to observe face-on for fear of what he might discover. “Tell me, Scaeva — when’s the last time a _medicus_ came to check on you?”

It hurts to laugh, but Nero manages anyway. “And you’ve the balls to tell _me_ off for not speaking the tongue of the people?”

That damned smile’s only grown wider: the movement pulls at Cid’s eyes in a way that delineates where the wrinkles are going to set in over the next few years. As terrible as it is to admit to oneself, he’ll look attractive for it. “Balls and tongues?” he says, pulling Nero’s mind back to the present, “You’ve caught on quick enough. I’d thought…”

He pauses to glance over his shoulder. Something about the curve of his mouth and the otherwise innocent movement sets Nero’s blood to blazing in a single heartbeat. He can feel it tingling in his fingertips and around his knees, and most important of all, in his cock. When he swallows, his mouth is drier than Ilsabardian tundra.

Cid looks back, and his smile falters for a moment. “... Well,” he continues, “I’d hoped you weren’t in too much pain. If you are—”

“I’m not,” Nero blurts, the words almost getting stuck in his mouth in their haste to fall out of him. The very idea of _not_ doing this is something that can _not_ come to pass. “I mean—”

That damned wry grin’s back in place, and Cid shifts from the stool to the mattress. It’s limp, but the wooden frame stops it from being truly uncomfortable, at least. “You never answered me, you know,” he says, as easy as though he’s asking after the weather. “When was the doctor last here?”

Nero thinks. He _tries_ , at least, though the effort is more than he’s able to bear in the moment. His chest is on fire, he’s stiff beneath the khadi robes, and all he wants is a little kindness he’s certain he doesn’t deserve.

“You’ve enough time,” he manages. It comes out a croak. “Please.”

 _Time enough_ isn’t _good enough_ for Cid Garlond, perfectionist that he is, who gets up to check the Barber for any errant souls passing through and even has the gall to _greet_ someone at the wide-open doors. When he comes back, he’s the very face of efficiency, and wastes no time in throwing the coverlet back. It takes him no time at all to push the patient’s robe up, and Nero’s cheeks flush hot and red when he’s bared to the world—

And, of course, Cid finds himself more preoccupied with a different problem. The bruises extend down his hipbones, and though they don’t hurt the same way they did even mere days ago, they’re still startling to look at. Damn it, Nero’s colours are _red_ , not black-and-blue.

“Looks painful,” he comments with forced airiness. “You’re sure that-”

“ _Yes_ ,” Nero growls. It hurts to shift onto his back once again, but he very carefully makes certain not to let any noise loose, or even curl his lip from the pain. If Cid abandons his course now, he’ll- well. He’ll scream, for one. “Get _on_ with it already—”

He expects an argument, for there to be a protest and a scuffle before getting his way: there’s none of that. Cid dips his head without further complaint and takes his cock into his mouth in a well-practised movement. The prickle of his beard against Nero’s thighs is both familiar and strange all at once; the heat of his mouth is beyond compare.

“ _—_ ” he gasps, and when Cid grunts he feels it ripple all the way through his body. Oh, it hurts to lift his hips, to be sure, but he does so anyway, and he feels Cid grin around him before the bastard slackens his throat. “Ah, _,_ ” he manages when his cock finds comfortable lodging deep in that wonderfully talented mouth. He’s allowed to stay there, hands weakly fisting into his robes to keep from grabbing at his hair, for what feels like a blessed eternity, before Cid swallows once around him, and lifts his head. Nero has no excuse for the whine that escapes him.

If he didn’t hurt so much, he’d kick Cid clean in the face when his cock slips free - break his traitor nose, hold him down and sink back into him with all the glorious force of a conquering Garlean - but alas, it isn’t to be.

“Why, Nero,” he grins. There’s spittle in his beard already and a twinkle in his eye. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you _cared_.”


End file.
